


Constant as the Sun

by exoskeleton



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Female Bilbo, Slow Build, Slow Burn, fem!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:13:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exoskeleton/pseuds/exoskeleton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a struggle to summon a smile, even a small one, so instead she reached out—again—and tucked Kili’s hair behind his large (reddening) ears. Then, bracing her hands on her knees, she pushed herself up and glanced at the Prince one last time. He blinked rapidly, looking confused all of a sudden. “I’ll find them. Promise.”</p><p>How Bilbo the Spinster became Bilbo the Burglar. And more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Three kinkmeme prompts inspired this story, which can also be found at ffdotnet. That's all, my dears.

It was in the darkness of Mirkwood that the dwarves finally discovered that Master Baggins was, in fact, _Mistress_ Baggins. _And if Gandalf had been present_ , the Baggins in question thought, _he would have been lighting his pipe and getting comfortable to watch the spectacle taking place_.

Somewhere in front of her.

She couldn’t see as well as the dwarrows could in the dark, but that didn’t mean she was hard of hearing! To her left, came the soft _thud-thud_ s that reminded Bilbo of Bofur, when the moustachioed dwarf would continuously raise and then lower his mattock onto the ground.

“That blasted wizard!”

To her right, Dwalin cracked his thick knuckles.

“How did this happen?”

About that?

It was quite simple, really.

Bilbo had been utterly vexed at their assumption of her gender, _thank you very much_ , and had promptly (with some mischievousness) wanted them to feel properly foolish when they realised their mistake. She might not have the most ample bosom in all the Shire, but she wasn’t—Bilbo brushed her hands across her midriff, then sent a hopefully discreet glance down at her chest— _that_ flat.

She cleared her throat.

( _Was she?_ )

Then shook her head, as if she were clearing away cobwebs of deep thought.

“Oh, leave it be,” Bilbo interjected airily, then flapped hand at—well, whatever was currently standing before her. (A scandalized Dori? A fallen branch?) It was oh-so-very _dark_ , indeed, especially from where she sat on the ground. “Lend me a hand, will you?”

There was a moment of strained silence. Then, following a sudden, somewhat strange scuffle—of elbows connecting with body parts (she assumed), of grunts and frenzied whispers (By the Green Lady! Were they _dissecting_ her question?)—a hand finally reached out and gently clasped her wrist.

“M-Mistress Baggins.”

“Thank you, Ori.” And Bilbo hopped up onto her furry feet (with an assortment of groans and moans as she rose), brushed a fussy hand down her dirty trousers (“What I’d do for a proper bath”), then announced a cheerful goodnight to her companions. But now—her lips formed a small pout—she had to find her bedroll.

Where had she put it again?

Oh, dear.

* * *

_Yes, she was a perfectly respectable hobbit, **whatever do you mean** , Master Nori? It was completely acceptable for hobbit lasses to wear trousers when romping through the woods; she had done the same, quite frequently, especially when she had helped with setting up tables and chairs around the Party Tree._

_And no, hobbit lasses didn’t dress like men when they left their homes, **whatever do you mean?** What? Oh, dwarrowdams did? And did they—yes?_

_Yes, Master Dori, it was completely acceptable; her bedroll could stay right there. No, no, she was, as always, perfectly happy sleeping between Fili and Ki— **she was** —oh, alright, Master Dori. Yes, she’ll move her bedroll, thank you very much ... “please don’t pout at me, Kili.”_

* * *

It was in the darkness of (a seemingly endless) Mirkwood that the (now dispirited but confoundingly gallant) dwarves (and one hobbit) came close to falling apart. Meandering paths that had went on, _on, **on**_ ; then that awful, awful river that had left them with a comatose Bombur; and a great evil none of them had expected, all pincers and eyes and all-too-large bodies. But none of that had been as terrifying as the palace of the Elvenking.

One moment she had been listening intently to Gloin (all the while smothering an amused smile at the sight of a still-pouting Kili), the next they were being attacked from all sides; _she_ had had to free them from the cobwebs—cobwebs upon cobwebs—with a trembling hand and a blood-soaked Sting.

A disorientated walk through the woods had led them to elf-fires, and at the last second, Bofur had spun around and forced her ring back on her finger in one fell swoop, hissing at her to run. Only Bilbo hadn’t, and now ... now she was alone, and she hadn’t seen her dwarves in days, and she might be a burglar in title, but she didn’t dare to steal even a crumb of bread or a carrot that had accidentally rolled off a plate onto the fine floor.

( _What if the elves noticed?_ )

No, Bilbo was alone, and she missed her dwarves terribly.

Missed the ever-present cheeky glint in Bofur’s eyes, the warmth in his smile. Oin’s sometimes questionable deafness; kind-hearted Ori and his bickering but loving brothers; how Balin would indulge her unquenchable thirst for knowledge. She even missed their appalling table manners (which had shocked her) and their close-knit relationships (which she had envied). Most of all, she missed Kili (and his brother); missed how he (and his brother) could make her laugh, make her forget the day’s difficulties (and, yes, Fili did the same), and could cheer her up by simply giving her that cheeky grin of his (and ... his brother _did_ have a charming smile, _yes, he **did**_ ).

Bilbo was alone, and she had no idea how to free her friends. She was a creature of comfort, one who thrived in the light, in the rolling green hills and pastures of the Shire. The brightly lit corridors shouldn’t have made her heart race a painful beat in her chest, and yet it happened, repeatedly, when she wondered time and time again when her shadow would finally be detected in the shimmering pools of torchlight.

Her thoughts were her only companions, and as the days passed fruitlessly, she started to wonder if she had been condemned to be a phantom until her dying day. Perhaps that was her fate; perhaps she would starve to death before finding a familiar, adored figure dressed in leathers and wools. Eventually, as she hid in corners and unlocked closets, trying so very hard to slumber, just for a moment, just for an hour, _please_ , she started to believe it.

( _How long has she been wondering these halls?_ )

Another different level to explore, another hallway to search. A mute phantom gliding past king and guard and every other denizen of the palace; searching, searching forevermore.

( _Would she ever see the dwarf King returned to his throne?_ )

Another elf to follow, this time one of the cooks. Because perhaps, one day, one of them would lead her to the Company. Because she was so very hungry, famished, and _was that meat being dried down yonder?_ Heedless of any danger, Bilbo followed the cook past the kitchen into the storeroom, where her mouth was abruptly flooded with drool at the sight of fruit, decanters of wine, bushels of vegetables, and there was enough meat to have sent her absent companions into raptures.

When her nigh-unbearably empty belly clenched and gurgled softly, Bilbo found herself captivated. Unthinkingly, she ducked under a table, and then under another, hiding herself in a corner (it happened more and more that she had to remind herself of her invisibility) before reaching out for a roll of bread.

Then for an apple from that basket, a thin strip of dried meat from that shelf, a sip from the flask of ale sitting in the other side of the room; again, again, again, until Bilbo finally felt—after a long time—somewhat satisfied. Hands resting on her now-silent stomach, she turned and surveyed the quiet storeroom, shuffling forward to take in the startling length of the room.

 _There was certainly no pantry of this size back in the Shire_ , she thought as she turned quietly on her heel and headed back to the door, storing rolls and other delicacies in her numerable pockets as she went. Bilbo primly licked her fingers clean, pressed her hands against the beautifully carved wood of the storeroom's door, and pushed. Then pushed again.

Bilbo swallowed nervously.

She took a step back, then another, before tilting back her head to take in the entire length of the immovable door all at once. So very _tall_ , so very heavy. Worried, Bilbo scurried back into the bowels of the storeroom and hid under a table, in the darkest spot she could find, keeping a weary eye on the exit.

Bilbo shuddered and hugged her vibrating legs, resting her chin on her knees as she started counting the seconds, minutes, until the door would be opened and she could continue her search. Sweat gathered at her temples; when it started trickling down her neck, disappearing into her clothes, she wondered if the elves would eventually catch her because of her unpleasant scent.

Oh, dear.

She shuddered.

Bilbo glanced at her ring; all of a sudden, she began rubbing at the gleaming surface, eying it from every angle, taking in the beauty of the simple band. She was no dwarrowdam, she had no love for gold, but she couldn’t deny the exquisiteness of this … this trinket. Slowly, she breathed in, then out, and calmed down. Then remembered how Gandalf had questioned her. _What did you find?_

_My courage._

Yes.

And so, now, she calmly waited in silence.

Not daring to move an inch.

* * *

Eventually, the stillness of the storeroom became too much to bear, and Bilbo began mumbling to herself about the journey thus far. About her initial difficulties with riding her pony; the quiet of the night, which had been utterly loud with the sound of crickets and snores and the first-watch quietly patrolling the campsite; the vast size of the trolls and the smell of mucus that had remained in her clothes for days on end; how she had snuck away to bathe in relative peace, which had been somewhat of an adventure in itself but an eventual nuisance.

 _Thinking of the past_ eventually became _thinking of the future_. Their destination, Erebor.

Balin (and others) had weaved a delicate image of their erstwhile home, of the layers of history carved out of stone, and it all had left her utterly breathless. A kingdom, inside a mountain! And the more she thought of Erebor, the more she desired to see it in its true beauty, the less she thought of those rolling hills and pastures of the Shire.

* * *

Time became meaningless, inconsequential, to the imprisoned hobbit; she wasn't certain how long she waited _—_ she doubted she would ever find out at a later stage _—_ but to her there was only the door and her all-important escape. Nothing else. Thus a (hungrier, no, _starving_ ) hobbit emerged from the storeroom once the lock had been turned, and she ghosted past the unsuspecting cook to continue looking.

This time, luck was on her side.

Bilbo had placed a few mere steps between herself and her temporary cell when she heard the words _dwarves_ and _food_ and _confinement_. With her teeth biting into her lower lip, cutting off the jubilant cry that dearly desired freedom, she swiftly _—_ albeit weakly _—_ followed a contingent of guards into the one place she hadn't been able to find on her own.

The dungeons of the Elvenking.

After many turns, and far too many steps made for longer strides, the patrol broke off into pairs; it should have sent a huffing-puffing Bilbo into hysterics, but she only primly sniffed at this new development and promptly followed her nose. Her nose had never betrayed her before, and it wouldn't leave her in the lurch now, of all times; so, naturally, it was something else, something completely out of her control, that nearly gave her away. A simple dizzy spell, for hobbits lived on seven meals a day, and anything less than that was unheard of!

So the world lurched to the left, all of a sudden, and Bilbo had to throw out her arms to catch herself. When her breathing finally evened out, and her vision stopped spinning, she squared her shoulders before giving the elves standing before her her undivided attention.

For a moment she panicked, wondering if she had been discovered in her moment of weakness, but the guards had their heads ducked toward each other and seemed to be debating about the plate of food the taller one was holding aloft. Bilbo wasn’t sure why the duo looked like they had swallowed something awfully sour, but it couldn’t, just couldn’t, be because of the freshly baked bread that was still making her mouth water.

It took her a few seconds to realise that the elves were actually discussing who would deliver that plate to a lonely, hunched figure sitting in a dark cell at the end of the corridor. And it took everything for her to not rush up to the ornate, green-tinged bars; to not kiss the flagstones and then call out a name because _finally, finally she had been led to one of her dwarves_. Bilbo tried so very hard to not weep with joy.

 _Patience, my sweet child_ , Bungo Baggins had repeatedly reminded his young, wild hobbit lass, _patience, and all will be well_.

And so she pressed herself against the cool wall, holding her breath as the plate was transferred from elf to dwarf. _Patient, how could she be?_ Bilbo wondered as the guards finally turned around and drifted away, silently returning to their posts. _How long has it been? How many days—?_

Bilbo, instead of quietly standing out of the way, nearly leapt out her skin when the plate that had been given to the prisoner was suddenly thrown onto the floor and shattered into many jagged shards. Heart racing in her throat, she pressed a hand to her bosom and drew in quick, calming breaths. But no one, she noticed after a long, strained minute, came to investigate.

After tugging on her tattered waistcoat, then brushing a still-shaking hand across her short locks, Bilbo threw her shoulders back and negotiated her way across the floor. As quietly as she could, she leaned against the bars and peeked inside. _Ori? Or was it Fili?_ The expectation made her tremble, and the dwarf, veiled in shadow, finally looked up.

Bilbo promptly pulled off her ring.

“ _Mistress Boggins?_ ”

Oh, Kili.

The incredulous tone in his quivering voice made her feel boneless with relief. Her knees gave out, her eyes screwed tightly shut. A tremulous smile quivered across Bilbo’s lips as warm fingers tentatively curled around her own. Inhaling softly, she finally opened her eyes, and again her lips curved upward of their own accord.

“Bilbo!” Kili breathed, his eyes continuously flicking to and fro, first memorizing her features, then inspecting her for any obvious injuries. He pressed himself against the bars. “You’re here!”

“Where else would I be?” she asked, all aquiver with anticipation.

“Bofur told you to run—”

“We were already lost, and I’d rather be lost with company than be all alone,” Bilbo said in a rush. “But I thought I would go mad before finding you!”

“Oh, Bilbo,” Kili sighed, and his hold on her fingers became painful. “I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this. Have you found Uncle?”

“I’ll find a way,” Bilbo promised, drawing herself upright, forgetting all about the weariness in her bones, the hunger in her belly, the dizziness in her head. “I’ll find him.”

“You _are_ our burglar.” A slow smile bloomed across Kili’s face, and the wildness in his eyes slowly crept away, forgotten. “Mistress Boggins?”

“Hmm?”

Kili watched her closely. “I miss your smile.”

“I miss yours,” was her immediate answer.

Bilbo, without once hesitating, freed her fingers and carded them through his unruly hair, brushing it this way and that until there was some semblance of neatness. Finally, she sat back, slowly lowering her hand, and studied the young dwarf as well as she could in the dim light. He no longer appeared so tired, so hungry (as they all had been before the attack), but there was a clear restlessness to him that was obviously due to his separation from his brother and beloved uncle.

“I’ll be back,” Bilbo whispered in a rush, again determined to find the rest of the Company, her friends. It was a struggle to summon a smile, even a small one, so instead she reached out—again—and tucked Kili’s hair behind his large (reddening) ears. Then, bracing her hands on her knees, she pushed herself up and glanced at the Prince one last time. He blinked rapidly, looking confused all of a sudden. “I’ll find them. _Promise_.”

And off she went, into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

The dungeons were as still as a tomb, the surrounding darkness a heavy shroud that forced Bilbo to hold her arms aloft, practically flailing around as she kept as close to the walls as physically possible. As she dragged her teeth over her cracked lips, her awareness narrowed in on her own shallow breathing, and for a moment she was reminded of the treacherous forest above, where silence reigned supreme and the night blotted the world out of existence.

It was as if she hadn’t snuck into the palace, but was still wandering listlessly in search of an ever-elusive path, keeping her downcast eyes focused on the ground in the hope of discovering exactly where they had to go. But when it dawned upon her that she was starting to confuse pale beams of light with hoary sheets of cobweb, she had to quickly remind herself of the clammy warmth of Kili’s flesh, the feel of his matted hair under her fingertips.

 _I’m Bilbo Baggins_ , she reminded herself as she held her breath and peeked around a corner, _a Baggins of Bag End, and I seem to be losing my mind_. Abruptly, Bilbo stood upright and crossed her arms, affecting her best affronted expression, for she had already found one dwarf so the rest would certainly be ‘unlost’ in due course. _Certainly!_ She nodded her head, firmly, resolutely.

Bilbo would find them, and find them she did: the second (and third) dwarf, much to her unvoiced relief, was held not so far away from Kili. Down a corridor, then across a narrow wooden bridge, before turning right at a forked path; there she found a napping Balin, and a few paces away in a separate cell, the ever-watchful Dwalin.

For a while, she merely stood arms akimbo, keeping her companions in her line of sight, her ears open for any patrolling guards. Eventually, Bilbo sagged against the nearest wall and drew in a deep, calming breath. When the trembling in her heavy limbs finally ceased, and every possible route heading toward her location had been inspected, she finally tugged off her ring with a tired flourish before cheerfully announcing: “Good morning!”

A strained beat passed in silence, then Balin looked up slowly, almost disinterestedly; and down the path, in the second cell, a heavy weight slammed loudly against the bars. As the older son of Fundin chuckled lowly, a gruff voice called out “ _What was that?_ ” in a tone that demanded a swift response.

“Our burglar,” Balin explained as a gentle smile grew across his narrow, chapped lips. He rose to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, then strode up to the bars of his cell. “Lassie,” he breathed, voice shot through with unbridled relief, “I thought we lost you.”

Bilbo could only laugh somewhat hysterically at that. “No,” she whispered breathlessly after a moment’s pause, her eyes abruptly smarting. By the Green Lady, _she wasn’t going to weep like some relieved fauntling reuniting with her long-lost father!_ “I ...” But her throat closed up, and she fell silent as understanding dawned in Balin’s eyes, quickly replaced by concern.

Head ducked, Bilbo shifted from foot to foot as she worried the edges of her soiled coat with nimble fingers; eventually, she wrapped her arms around her waist, completely stymied for something to say. However, when Balin hemmed all of a sudden, she drew herself up and squared her shoulders.

“I’ve located Kili,” she whispered in a rush, her eyes continuously flicking almost feverishly to and fro as she split her attention between Balin (who watched her as a rather proud but troubled father would) and her surroundings (which was awfully, unearthly quiet aside from the soft murmur of her voice). “And only him.” Then added as an afterthought, “The King ... I don’t know where he is.”

 _Thorin_ , Bilbo thought tiredly as she placed her hands over her aching stomach. Finally, the franticness that had possessed her all of a sudden seeped out of her, and she could meet Balin’s gaze without fearing that her composed mask would crumble away, exposing the insecurity and the fear and the weariness that had draped itself across her limbs.

She had to, _had to_ , find the king.

(Thorin, to put it mildly, hadn’t been fond of her for weeks on end, thus contact between king and untested burglar had been limited—even when the hobbit in question found herself being dragged around by the young, rambunctious princes. And now, seeing that there would be no Kili grinning excitedly on her right and no Fili on her left—silent, smoking, smug—she found herself becoming unreasonably nervous at the thought of being alone with the King Under The Mountain).

Bilbo sighed heavily.

Find the king, and then an escape route.

Out of a heavily fortified palace.

 _Oh, dear._ “Goodness gracious,” Bilbo muttered to no one in particular, gently patting her hands across the clammy flesh of her cheeks. “I don’t know how we’re going to get out of here.”

“You keep on surprising us, Mistress Burglar.” Balin was quick to reassure her, and far to her right, came a soft grunt that spoke of reluctant agreement. “Our fate is in your hands, again.” He bowed his head. “We are in your debt.”

Cheeks pink with embarrassment, Bilbo felt unnaturally warm all of a sudden.

For a few seconds, she merely stood motionless at the unexpected (but not unwanted) praise. Finally, after clearing her throat quietly, then gnawing on her lower lip to smother a pleased smile, she tried her best to wrest back some semblance of a casual, calm demeanour. Eventually, Bilbo managed to voice a response. “I don’t … I don’t wish to disappoint you.”

“I know, lassie.” His calm reassurance melted away the last vestiges of her fear, her insecurity. “I know.” Balin then tucked his hands into his sleeves and rocked back on his heels, a woeful expression flitting briefly over his features. “If Thorin cannot be found,” he intoned slowly, as if to delay the inevitable, “then Fili must lead the Company.”

It was a startling reminder that sent ice through her veins; for so very long, Bilbo had considered the quest as Thorin’s, and Thorin’s alone, but it had never—not once—dawned upon her that, if the king were to perish, then Fili would take up the mantle to reclaim the home he had only heard of in tales and songs.

That image, Bilbo knew without a doubt, was too tragic to be accepted; she was a mere hobbit, plainly accustomed to simpler things, but even she knew that both princes were far too young to even consider ruling the lost kingdom in their uncle’s stead.

No, no, she had to find Thorin; the sooner, the better.

With a decisive nod, Bilbo drew herself up; once again, she had found her courage. (Her fingertips caressed patterns on the still-cool surface of the ring). She locked eyes with Balin. “I’ll take my leave now—”

A few grumbled words of Khuzdul echoed down the path, effectively drowning out what would have been a longwinded farewell. Balin’s eyes widened, and Bilbo nearly asked _whatever is the matter?_ when the dwarf before her raised a finger to his lips and then waved his hand in gesture she immediately understood to mean _flee, flee now, **hurry!**_

“Quiet, dwarf!” came the distant, lilting call of an elf.

Her heart, now sitting in her throat, pounded almost painfully.

With celerity, Bilbo popped on her ring—

Balin cleared his throat, a habit that either meant that he was distressed or anxious.

—and slunk off into the shadows.

* * *

Soon, after that, the rest of the dwarves—save for the king—became ‘unlost’.

* * *

_She was still perfectly healthy, Master Dori. (A lie). She was ... oh, it didn’t matter, for she would release them all from their cells and the Company would escape and all would be well and—oh yes, she would give Ori that brotherly message right away, Master Dori! No, no, Nori’s well-behaved just, **just bored** , see. And she would be back soon, Master Dori, she just wanted to speak to Bombur again before nightfall. Yes, yes, she would give Nori a similar ‘brotherly’ message as well—_

_Oh, **oh** , alright, she would sleep outside Nori’s cell. Oh, how keen were his ears? Quite keen, then; yes, she would sleep there. And yes, she would be **outside** the cell; everything would be perfectly respectable, as respectable as it could be in the dungeons. She would try her best to have forty winks … “but not for long, you see.”_

* * *

Her latest dream was a dizzying kaleidoscope of unfinished scenes. Every spoken word, rustle of leaves, thud of heavy dwarven boots sounded muffled, even ... distorted, in a way; as if something in the fabric of the world had been slightly altered. Sheets of cobwebs were somehow thicker than before, utterly unforgiving; the red canopy of autumnal leaves so dense, so lush, night and day were inextricably intertwined. Sometimes one dwarf abruptly morphed into another; one moment Thorin was embracing his nephews—long, black curls shortened into an uneven bowl-cut—then Ori was shouldering his siblings apart.

Each and every scene reeked of barely contained despair.

Then, later, of suffocating fear.

Spiders, spiders— _so many of them_ —shook the world as they dropped, rolled, or scampered after their tiny meals with their tiny, stinging weapons. In the confusion, an invisible Bilbo dashed hither and thither, stabbing and slashing and slitting; then she climbed up, up, up, cutting the webbing and sending more spiders to the ground with almighty thuds. Until one of her foes appeared, out of nowhere, and sent her flying, crashing all the way back down onto the undergrowth.

Bilbo awoke with a start.

Her heart pounded uncomfortably in her throat. After breathing in slowly, steadily, to calm her nerves, the first thing she noticed was the hard wood beneath her; no leaves, errant strands of webbing, or tattered bedrolls. Then, rolling onto her side to face Nori’s cell, she belatedly realised that her teeth were chattering and her hands were stiff with cold.

 _Strange_ , Bilbo thought as she pulled herself up, glancing up and down the narrow walkway for any lurking guards, _the dungeons were dark and silent but never so cold_. With care, she pulled off her ring, hid it in her pocket with fumbling fingers, and settled back against the wall of the cell. For a moment, Bilbo watched the view (a yawning chasm populated with tree roots) almost contemplatively; then, shaking her head as if putting an end to fanciful imaginings, she chafed her fingers gently to warm them.

“Finally,” said a reedy voice. “I thought you’d never wake.”

“I ...” Bilbo automatically responded, then froze, and looked up to catch Nori’s eye.

The sly thief sat half-in-shadow, half-not; his hair, normally artfully braided, lay in disarray around his thin shoulders, and he watched her with clever eyes that flaunted an ever-moving, ever-wakeful mind. She could almost hear his every thought, almost. Eyes fluttering, Bilbo looked away.

Canted her head.

She had only wanted to rest for a minute. Had only promised herself a short nap.

Yet she remembered speaking to Bombur, who had perked up at seeing her, before moving through the shadowed corridors as quickly as possible without actually breaking into a sprint; after that, there was the memory of an exasperated Nori snorting at the message his older brother had given her. Her delivery complete, she had flopped onto the walkway with her ring back on her finger and a wary eye on the chasm before her, listening idly to Nori’s observations, then—nothing.

 _Oh_. Oh, no. “I did,” she confessed, as if admitting to a sin.

But Nori only clicked his tongue.

Frowning, Bilbo held her trembling hands poised above her lap. Then she shook her head almost disinterestedly, feeling dizzy all of a sudden. “I slept too long,” she muttered under her breath as her blood thickened with white-hot panic. “I slept too long,” became a mantra as she shifted to sit on her haunches, placing her weight on the balls of her feet.

Despite her frequent attempts to rise, she couldn’t find it within her to actually stand. Heavy silence descended as she placed her hands on her (slightly knobby) knees. After a while, Bilbo started rubbing her palms across her flanks, but her movement stopped altogether when it dawned upon her that her trousers were wet. A beat passed, and then she rolled over onto her side to check her clothes, not in the least concerned with propriety or the edge of the walkway.

“Here, eat,” Nori called, but Bilbo was too busy inspecting the palm of her hand to respond.

A few seconds later, after eying her surroundings, Bilbo sat back on her rump and cocked her head, panic now wholly forgotten. After a moment, Bilbo held out her hand toward Nori but refused to look away from the rivulets of water running down the wall and then across the walkway into open air. Her hand closed around a slightly stale roll of bread, and Bilbo immediately took a hungry bite out of it.

“Dori—” the sound of Nori’s voice awoke her from her trance, and Bilbo turned to him mid-chew, startled, “—should let you do what needs to be done. So ... don’t worry about sendin’ messages for us, lass, and sleep properly for once—”

Bilbo swallowed the mouthful. “I’m a grown hobbit,” she countered without heat, “capable of making my own decisions. And one’s kin should be one’s priority.”

“Aye, a grown hobbit, but a wee lass at that. And lass, now you’re our responsibility. Our ... ‘priority’, as you say.”

“Oh, indeed I am?” was her muttered response. She didn’t care one whit that she was talking around her food. “If I were, then Fili and Kili wouldn’t have sent a lady to rescue ponies. Ponies!” She swallowed hard on the last crust of breakfast.

Nori wriggled against the wall to make himself comfortable. “What’s that?” His teasing tone of voice revealed that he had heard everything she had said.

(And she knew what she had said was wholly unfair, since both princes hadn’t known at the time that they were sending a ‘lady’ into the trolls’ camp).

“Nothing,” she breathed.

They momentarily lapsed into silence.

“You’ll think of some wonderful plan to help us,” the thief said out of the blue, as if to reassure her.

Bilbo wasn’t sure if it _was_ reassuring. She hunched over, draping her arms around her legs to keep warm. “I’m becoming rather proficient at saving your lives,” she mumbled, but loud enough for Nori to hear, “no doubt from all this practice.”

Sighing softly, Bilbo ran a finger through the small pool of water gathering on the wood, then placed her hand on the wall, watching quietly as the drops rolled down her wrist. To the left of her hand sat a wide crack.

Nori shifted, and his boots scraped loudly across the ground. “Just a sliver of a crack,” he said quietly, “and water will find a way out.”

 _A way out?_ Bilbo sat upright slowly.

They were in the middle of a forest, stuck in an elven palace ... there had to be a water source nearby, one coming in from beyond the poisons of Mirkwood. Perhaps there was another gate, of a different sort; a different way out.

Perhaps.

Bilbo blinked owlishly. “Nori …” she mumbled distractedly, still studying the crack, “when we get out of here, would Thorin send me back? I’m ...” She shrugged. “I’m a ‘woman’ now.”

Nori frowned. “The princelings will be mad.”

It wasn’t the answer she desired, but she accepted it with alacrity. “I’m lucky I survived thus far,” Bilbo said in lieu of responding to his nonchalant statement. ( _Her?_ A mere hobbit, being favoured by the sons of Durin? Oh dear, oh dear, _oh dear_ ).

“And our King needs his lucky burglar.”

 _Our?_ She ducked her head bashfully. “Please don’t jest.”

“Jest? What jest? Never heard of such a thing.”

Bilbo turned to give the imprisoned dwarf her undivided attention. They watched each other for a long moment, and for once, she wanted to know what he was thinking. Or perhaps it would be a mistake to know. “I should ...” She pointed down the walkway.

Nori nodded. “Be safe.”

“I will,” Bilbo agreed in a feeble whisper. Head ducked, she pulled herself up to her feet and swung her arms almost nervously. (And sometimes, she wondered if Nori had felt insulted when _she_ had been hired as the burglar, for he was the professional thief, the better lawbreaker. Not her). “I’m off …” As she slunk off, she mumbled “on an adventure” under her breath.

After days and days of worrying, Bilbo found herself smiling ruefully. About ‘adventure’ itself or a possible escape route? She wasn’t sure, but she dearly wished to see sunlight again, _oh how she longed for it!_ Even sleeping on a bedroll would be delightful! And she would get all of that, that and more, if she could find what she was looking for.

She could almost, almost believe that she was a tween again, that she was darting through the Shire without a care in the world, not racing down a precarious walkway with no railings but flanked by a startling _nothingness_ that still made her queasy to the stomach. Not shuddering at the unexpected chill that rushed through her body once the ring had returned to her finger. _Adventure!_

(But when she had been a tween, her adventures had consumed her. To the point that it had been difficult to remember the way back home. After roaming the forest for so long with only her imagination as her constant companion, nearly every path and every quaint door appeared the same. Her father had clicked his tongue at her forgetfulness, and had told her that if she wished to go off so much, then she had to remember certain landmarks.

But also needed to remember her society, not her adventures, because no decent gentlehobbit would accept the hand of an adventurous lass. The women initiated courtships, he reminded her time and time again, and the matriarchs of the families decided whether or not a match was suitable. And young Bilbo, as the next matriarch of the Baggins clan, had to remember her responsibilities _and_ had to have her feet stuck firmly on the good earth.

 _I know you will make me proud_ , Bungo Baggins had half-warned his young, wild hobbit lass).

And perhaps, just perhaps, she could—would?—make her dwarves proud.

* * *

For the first time in days, Bilbo left the dungeons, and this time she ghosted through the palace with practically a skip in her step. _Down, down, down_ , she thought as she darted down flights of stairs, dodged guards and occasionally a member of the royal family, before she finally heard the blessed trinkle of running water. And, soon after that, she quickly discovered a few things: the stream was part of the lowest regions of the palace; the Wood-elves were very fond of wine and feasts; a new shipment of wine, as well as a feast, was expected on the morrow.

After that, everything quickly fell into place. Starting with the keys. The guard with the cell keys (she was so sure they were the right ones, but she couldn’t help worrying that they weren’t) went to his chambers to rest; the burglar with the cell keys (she was so sure they were the right ones, but she couldn’t help taking them to make sure that they were) tiptoed out of the chambers to return to the dungeons.

Bilbo, clutching her prize to her bosom, headed back into the bowels of the dungeons without once looking back. She passed landmark after landmark, mind curiously blank, fingers closed around the keys so that she moved as quietly as possible. But Bilbo came to sudden stop a few paces away from Kili’s cell, head canted to the side, eyes slowly narrowing at the scene taking place before her.

The elf, if she remembered correctly, was the captain of the guards, and had long tresses of fire that curled at the ends. _Tauriel_. That was her name. But why was the captain there, head ducked as she spoke quietly to the prince, and not patrolling the many corridors and occupied cells? Bilbo found herself moving forward slowly, toward the youngest heir of Durin.

But Tauriel abruptly turned on her heel—

Bilbo quickly scurried aside, silently panicking.

—and strode away.

Chest heaving, the hobbit waited until the dim corridor was utterly silent, and only then did she notice the shards of a broken plate littering the floor outside the cell. Bilbo sighed, the breath gusting loudly from her nostrils. _Kili_ , she thought miserably as she watched him become restless, all but bouncing expectantly, tapping his boots against the stone. _Brave but reckless, this young, wild princeling_.

 _Oh Kili_. Bilbo’s eyes misted over as she watched the dwarf pace the length of his cell.

She realised that she did indeed miss his smile; his cheerful, irrepressible grin that seemed to emit joy like sunshine. And she also missed seeing how he and his other half did everything together, attached shoulder-to-shoulder. Oh, she should have visited Fili instead of Nori; should have asked the crown prince for a message for his younger brother— _what had she been thinking?_

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably—then the keys were clanging together.

Kili promptly froze in place, his head jerking up like a hound scenting the wind. For a moment, they both stood in tense anticipation; then, sighing softly at her own skittishness, Bilbo pulled off her ring and scampered up to the cell.

Kili’s shoulders drooped. “Bilbo, you look tired,” he blurted.

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile—she quickly forgot why exactly she was there. “A woman always loves to hear that she looks tired,” she trilled, feeling weightless all of a sudden, no longer burdened with anxiety or fear. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“I did not mean ...” Kili sputtered, and his ears reddened delightfully.

“Do not despair, I shall survive the humiliation.” Bilbo inhaled sharply, and her stomach gave a nervous lurch when her fingers tightened around the keys she had stolen. Abruptly, she was reminded of her task. “I can’t … I can’t stay long— _I have to return the keys_. I think,” she said rather breathlessly—a curious Kili shuffled closer, “I’ve found a way out.”

Trembling, she inserted a key— _let it be the right one, **please**_ —then turned the lock.

The cell door opened silently.

Kili came out slowly, skirting the mess on the ground; he kept his eyes locked on her as he reached out, wrapping his fingers tightly around her lax hand. The slenderness of her own fingers contrasted almost humorously with his comparatively larger ones. With a relieved smile, Bilbo looked up, and—out of the blue, really—she realised how very tall he was.

Swallowing thickly, she studied him closely, looking up and down several times. His messy hair, the heavy boots, the stubble along his jaw, his tunic—“When do we leave?” She watched the way his lips formed the words—and Bilbo was brought back to the present.

“Tomorrow,” Bilbo answered steadily. _Hopefully, tomorrow._

Kili nodded. “I should …” He gestured toward the cell but stood rooted to the spot. “Bilbo, you …” A relieved, tremulous smile quivered on his lips. “I knew you were just fine.” His smile widened into a lupine grin; he shuffled back into the cell, not once looking away.

Bilbo ducked her head and bit her lower lip. “There’s a feast tomorrow,” she explained while locking the cell, “and the Elvenking’s butler is awaiting a shipment of wine. The butler ...” Bilbo nervously rambled as Kili leaned against the bars, “mentioned testing the wine beforehand. If the revelry of the feast spreads to the guards, and I can get the keys again, then we can escape.”

“Good.”

“Good,” she agreed, then turned slightly as she watched the end of the corridor. “I should—” _return the keys_ , but Kili caught her wrist at the last moment.

“Stay,” he implored.

But Bilbo knew time was running out.

(“ _Have you found Uncle?_ ”

“ _I’ll find a way. I’ll find him_.”)

So she put on her ring—“Bilbo?”—and sat down on the ground, resting her shoulder against the bars. “I’m here,” she whispered, and Kili quickly hunkered down, angling himself toward the sound of her voice. “But … I should go soon.” Bilbo spoke to her lap, and when she looked up, there was a look on her friend’s face that she couldn’t quite figure out.

“We’re getting out,” Kili whispered, and his smile reminded her of Bag End, of strangers sitting around her table and an eager dwarf announcing, _there’s another way in!_ “Erebor …” Just one word, weighed down with emotion, but Bilbo now understood everything.

“Home,” she said in the same tone he himself had used. “Your mother’s home. Thorin’s home … yours, soon. Tell me more about it.”

Brown eyes sparkled warmly under a crop of dishevelled locks. “ _Bilbo_ …” Kili whispered breathlessly, “as you wish.”

* * *

 _The king had to be found, tonight_ , Bilbo told herself much later after returning the keys, and by chance she nearly tiptoed right into the one dwarf she hadn’t been able to find. The one dwarf the princes adored above all others; who had watched over the Company, relentlessly led them across Middle-earth, and would—without a doubt—die for them, die for _his people_ , in an instant.

The regal dwarf was surrounded by guards, each and every one of them silent and staring fixedly ahead as they marched; the group, from the looks of it, had just departed the throne room, for a scowling Thorin—son of Thrain, son of Thror, the great King Under The Mountain—was grumbling about untrustworthy elves. Was muttering anathemas under his breath while being herded down many, many corridors; was scowling darkly when an elf unbarred a metal door and practically shoved him inside.

It was then, as Bilbo watched the guards leave, that it dawned upon her that she wouldn’t be slumbering that night. Not for a minute, not for an hour, for her heart was a deafening staccato in her ears—drowning out all sounds and heightening all fears—and her mind was abuzz with questions. Would she steal the keys in time; would she be able find the key to that thick, seemingly impenetrable door; would the feast be delayed for some sudden reason?

But Bilbo dismissed it all, tiptoed up to the door, and pressed her ear against the cool metal. For a moment, she strained her ears, listening carefully; when a deep, frustrated growl rent the air, Bilbo quickly glanced over her shoulder— _good, they were still alone_ —before calling out to Thorin. At first, she thought she hadn’t been heard, but as she shuffled even closer to the door, there was a great thud inside the cell—which sent her reeling back—then a hissed question.

“Halfling?” Then Thorin added incredulously, “ _Burglar?_ ”

Bilbo clicked her heels together, then bobbed her head before remembering that the king couldn’t see her. Clearing her throat nervously, she shuffled on the spot, sent another cursory look over her shoulder, and then turned her attention to the door once more. “Yes ... it’s me,” she whispered breathlessly, and for a few seconds she flailed wordlessly, not sure what to say, what to do next.

(She refused to reveal how despondent Fili had been the last few days, how Balin—and Dwalin—had been utterly restless with worry, how Bombur had lost his appetite. How Bifur couldn’t be roused from his frequent trances. She especially refused to inform Thorin how the Elvenking had scared her, how she had foolishly hidden behind draperies at the notion that perhaps, just perhaps, Thranduil actually sensed her unseen presence).

“Everyone’s well,” she added in a nervous rush. “And, _naturally_ ... eager to leave.”

There was an audible sigh of relief. “You have a plan, burglar.” But it wasn’t a question, just a mere statement. As if he actually knew her and knew her well. As if he had confidence in her and her skills.

“I do,” was her prompt response. Bilbo gave the door a neat little bow before taking a seat on the floor. After crossing her legs, then twiddling with thumbs, she cleared her throat and thought hard of her words before letting them loose into the corridor. Slowly, haltingly, she explained her plan. _Please_ , she thought in despair, _please let it work._

* * *

 _Please let it work_ , Bilbo thought as she hugged the bundle of keys to her chest. _Please_ —she peeked around a corner and heard the faint strains of music— _oh, please_. Weariness washed over her in waves as her body slowly drooped. _This is folly_. Bilbo, closing her eyes for a long moment, finally rushed down the corridor, away from the feast where the elves (as well as the guards) were imbibing far too many flagons of obviously-potent wine.

Nausea sank into the depths of her like poison, and she could almost feel it settling into every crevice of her being. But, as always, she ignored it all, gulped it all down, and ventured off with a barely perceptible smile; the smile of a young adventurer, of the innocent and carefree. Mutely, Bilbo released the dwarf king; then—after dismissing the heavy (assessing, _so much and more_ ) look Thorin sent her—she led him down the empty passageways and into the dungeons.

After that, Bilbo willingly became a spectator as Thorin took the ring of keys from her lax fingers and freed his companions; after that, she silently watched as kin and kith happily (and, in some cases, tearfully) reunited, as the Company greeted their leader with unbridled relief. Then, as the royal brothers embraced, the rest of the dwarves turned to their burglar and greeted her ever-so-politely ( _for some reason_ , but perhaps she would never understand dwarrows) before turning expectantly to their silent king.

“Burglar.”

Only one word, but Bilbo immediately understood, and immediately led the way with her head held high, only concentrating on breathing. On putting one foot, then another forward. _There would be sleep and food once everyone escaped_ , Bilbo kept on reminding herself, _go forward, only forward._ And she kept on looking forward, only forward, even while the dwarves followed her like stampeding trolls all the way out of the dungeons.

It was only when Bilbo sensed the dwarves’ frank bafflement at being herded into the cellar that she pivoted on her heel, turning her back toward the slumbering elf-butler (and his companion) sitting slouched at a table. Perhaps she shouldn't have indulged her curiosity, should have simply walked on, but she found herself halting her steps when she noticed how her dwarves were whispering to each other. Normally, if they didn't agree with her suggestions, they would air their opinions at once.

All of a sudden, Nori (as well as Bifur) interposed himself between her and the bottom of the stairs. Bilbo blinked at the skeins of the thief’s long hair before nervously eying their unconscious audience once again; then, looking away, she contemplated the Company in silence.

Bofur, normally amiable and equable, looked uncharacteristically glum as he stared fixedly at a point just over her shoulder. Dori mumbled under his breath as Ori bit at his nails, surveying their surroundings with wide eyes; Bombur shuffled almost nervously on the spot while Dwalin elbowed Gloin. Gloin, on the other hand, only fiddled with his beard—a sight that somehow reminded Bilbo of her father when he had had to gather his courage to confront his wife.

“What is it?” she asked at once.

“What are we doing in the cellar, lass?” Bofur responded, idly scratching at the nape of his neck. His hat tilted forward precariously as he cocked his head to catch her eye.

“There’s no time—” One of the elves inhaled sharply, head lolling slightly, “—we have to leave. Goodness gracious, now!”

“How?” Kili mumbled, his inflection flat and utterly unreadable, his dark eyes narrowed at her. _At her_.

 _Did he not trust her?_ Swallowing thickly, Bilbo looked away, choosing to face the rows of wine bottles and barrels instead of the beloved faces of her friends. Her eyes locked with Nori’s (then Bifur’s) as she hurried down the last few steps and gestured at the open barrels. “You need to trust me.”

But could they? _Could these proud, secretive dwarves trust this fussy hobbit?_ Instead of reassuring her, most of the Company only turned to each other, heads ducked as they conversed heatedly in Khuzdul.

Bilbo had to make a conscious effort to pull her tongue out of her cheek, where it was making slow, agitated circles. “Get in the barrels.” She cast them a desperate glance as she backed up a few steps. “You need to trust me.” It stung that she had to repeat herself.

“What did she say?” Oin called out, but no one clarified the situation for him—Thorin abruptly ordered everyone to obey her wishes, and the dwarves fell silent as they headed swiftly toward the barrels.

As the Company prepared themselves, Bilbo kept guard, standing silently on the landing, eyes trained on the exit. After the room stilled, an awkward cough prompted her to turn and then to advise everyone to hold on. She reached for a lever. “And do hold your breath,” Bilbo added almost conversationally, all the while ignoring the uncertain squawks of protest.

For a moment, she watched as the trapdoor yawned opened— _oh dear, she had forgotten all about herself_ —but with a start, she hurried after the rolling barrels, arms wind-milling as she slipped down the polished wood. Her heart slammed into her throat when she saw the surface of the coursing river rushing up to meet her. As the heavy barrels connected loudly with the water below, she thought she heard her name being called, out of panic, but she dismissed it as she shut her eyes … and held her breath.

The watery world exploded around her.

* * *

There were only a few things that Bilbo remembered from their race down the tributary. The sudden muting of sound when the river pulled her under; the unforgivingly loud roar of waves crashing together or slapping onto boulders like thunder. The cries of her dwarves, heard but not seen— _she just couldn't get them into her line of sight, only a momentary blur of a barrel before the spray of water forced her to close her eyes._ Her nausea, abruptly doubling, once the familiar, autumnal trees of Mirkwood came into sight.

Even now, as she clutched at a bobbing barrel to keep her head above water, as she watched as the dwarves slowly crept one-by-one away from the riverbank to crest the berm, she found herself wondering about the journey down the river instead of pulling herself up and joining the Company. There were only a few things she wanted to remember about their escape ... but the only thing that truly mattered was her success. Bilbo gasped with laughter. _She did it! Everyone was whole and hale—_ as far as she could tell _._

In the distance, Bofur called out, “Where’s Bilbo?”

At once, Bilbo pulled herself up but immediately fell back with an undignified splash. She resurfaced, gasping, and tried to stand up but her flailing limbs refused to cooperate with her. By the time Bofur and Nori had reached her side, she had bumped both elbows and knees and had swallowed more than enough mouthfuls of the river. “Arugh,” was her attempt at thanking the two dwarves as they helped her onto dry land.

If they responded, she would never know. Bilbo was all too busy blinking her eyes and working her jaw, her feet alternatively dragging and stumbling uselessly beneath her. Or behind her? She wasn't sure. Bilbo could only groan weakly, pathetically. Could only nod—and cringe as her ears rang painfully—when Nori whispered to her, “Well done, Mistress Burglar.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out, and _oh_ , the Baggins side of her tutted at her continued silence. Her stomach lurched nauseatingly as chills coursed down her body—it was safer keeping her mouth firmly shut. ( _But what had to come out_ , Belladonna Baggins had whispered to her feverish daughter many years before, _would come out_ ).

Bilbo wrenched one arm free—Bofur immediately froze in alarm—before clapping her hand to her mouth. She tottered past the Company on unsteady feet and managed to hold herself together as long as she could before emptying her stomach onto an innocent shrub. Exhausted, Bilbo flopped back onto her rump and wiped the back of her hand across her lips.

For a moment, she considered rolling over to sleep right where she was, for the world was spinning far too much all of a sudden, but Ori appeared at her right out of the blue and helped her to her furry feet. Bilbo didn't seem to have a choice in the matter, but what could she do when an overly-concerned dwarf was determined to place her in the centre of a bustling group?

Eyes half-shut, Bilbo collapsed across the ground and hugged herself as tightly as she could, belatedly realising that her teeth were chattering, that her body was sporadically convulsing. She didn't care in the least that her clothing was still sopping wet or that most of the Company was stomping around, busy with this or that. _Sleep, she only desired sleep_. And by the Green Lady— _who was shaking her like that?_

Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, decided that she didn't care.

So she rolled over onto her side, promptly falling into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Later, when night had fallen, Bilbo awoke slowly. After a few groggy seconds, she realised that their campsite had been moved to a different, safer location; that one of the dwarves were patrolling nearby, circling the slumbering Company; and that she had been tightly wrapped in a cloak that restricted her movement. Then, after turning carefully onto her back, it dawned upon her that she was, in fact, wrong.

It was Kili. Who had his arms around her, as if he had been afraid that she would simply get up and walk off; who slept with his nose buried in her neck, his breath tickling her clammy skin. And it all nearly sent Bilbo into a panic— _oh, how improper!_ —but instead of beating the dwarf aside in a sudden frenzy, she swallowed—her throat clicked loudly—and closed her heavy eyes.

 _It was a simple dream_ , was her sleepy explanation.

Just a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Thank you--thank you, thank you, thank you!--to everyone who left a comment, etc.  
> *Nori’s scene in the dungeons was initially going to be Bofur’s. (I really, really ... wanted more characterization from the dwarves in DoS).  
> *The ‘as you wish’ was first going to appear later, but it felt just right to end it like that.


End file.
